


Love comes in at the eyes

by MissKitten



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: After boatsex, Angst, F/M, Romance, post season 7 finale
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-08-31
Updated: 2017-10-10
Packaged: 2018-12-22 06:48:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 17,104
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11961954
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MissKitten/pseuds/MissKitten
Summary: Though Jon had left her chambers early, Daenerys had a feeling their secret romance wasn’t all that secret where her small council was concerned.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> It's been years since I last wrote anything for any fandom, let alone post it. Big thanks to my friend Susan for reading it over for me. And a shoutout to LineSofie who inspired me to write my own take. Hope it satisfies.

It was the sudden cry of a passing seagull that finally stirred her from her slumber. A few rays of sunlight had crept into her spacious cabin, though it wasn’t quite morning yet. His arms were warm, wrapped around her lithe frame, his steady breaths gently rustling the stray hairs that had escaped her rather complicated nest of braids. Still heavy with sleep, she closed her eyes, listened to the steady pace of waves crashing onto the side of the ship, and let her fingers gently trace the ridges of his scars, paying extra attention to the one situated right on top of his heart. Ser Davos hadn’t got carried away, she knew that now; had known ever since she had seen him half frozen to death in his cabin. She supposed Jon had kept it quiet to avoid unsettling her, but truth be told as much as his sacrifice pained her, it was also a relief to know she wasn’t the only one born anew.

She wasn’t a stranger to men desiring her, men seeking to win her, be it for her beauty, her titles, her power; men who saw pieces and deemed it all of her. For Dario she had been desirable, a conquest to end all conquests. As much as she had enjoyed him for his simple motivations and desires, in the end he had been easy to leave behind. Drogo had come to love her by the end, but he had attributed her fierceness to their child growing in her womb, and not her own awakening. Even if her sun and stars hadn’t been taken away from her, she would have always been one step behind, a Khaleesi, but never a Queen. The Daenerys who walked into his funeral pyre truly did die in the flames; though not a physical death she had nevertheless come out of the ashes someone else. Not because of her dragons, not because of her losses, but something else she couldn’t explain. So, strange as it was, feeling the ugly jagged line of his scar under her fingertips brought her an odd sense of comfort.

There had been no spoken words between when he came to her door, yet entire conversations had been held through the way he had looked at her and she him. As Doreah used to tell her; _love comes in at the eyes_. His eyes had certainly spoken volumes, making it impossible for her to deny what she now knew to be true; the wolf from the north had indeed fallen in love with her. If she was honest with herself, she had known before that. Before he bent the knee and proclaimed her his Queen, maybe even before her Hand had voiced his own observations about this King in the north. If she was particularly honest, she had known she loved him back almost as long. Loved this frustratingly stubborn north man, who in spite of all of her power of intimidation had repeatedly refused to bend the knee, holding his own people’s interest above any notion of personal safety. Loved the man so honourable, he’d rather risk a most fragile peace treaty than lie to an enemy.

A deep and heavy sigh signalled his stirring, and she lifted her head from his chest in time to meet his eyes as they opened. His brooding face slowly taking her in, his eyes carrying traces of the intensity she had seen in him when he had first buried himself inside of her.

“My Queen,” his rumbling voice still thick with sleep sent warmth rushing to her core. The slight emphasis on the first word not lost on her. Whether it was intentional or just a slip of the tongue was hard to say, not that she would deny his claim.

“Is this what you had in mind?” Jon’s brows furrowed in confusion, and she clarified, “when you asked me to sail with you.”

“No,” he allowed his free hand to trail down the side of her face, his eyes tender yet lustful, “I wouldn’t dare to hope.”

She felt his growing hardness press against her thigh as he cupped the back of her head and they met for a tender kiss. Rather than allowing him to once more take charge and roll them over, she slipped a leg over his and climbed on top. As she hovered above him, he propped himself up, claiming her mouth once more as she rose up and sank down onto him. Last night had left them a craving only the other could satisfy, and they came together in an urgent mess of limbs, lips and teeth. As he spilled himself into her, despite herself she filled with hope. Hope for that impossible future a vengeful witch had once denied her.

Noticing her distant expression, Jon asked, “Where did you go?”

Daenerys shook her head, and smiled a sad smile as she gazed back into his eyes, “Far away and a lifetime ago.” 

He didn’t press the matter and instead captured her lips for a brief, but loving kiss. They both knew they couldn’t stay like this for long. The ship wasn’t due to reach White Harbour for weeks, but they had a war to plan, an impossible war against an impossible enemy. And they still had to convince the northern lords to accept Jon’s decision to bend the knee.

 

\---

 

Though Jon had left her chambers early, Daenerys had a feeling their secret romance wasn’t all that secret where her small council was concerned. Of course Tyrion suspected; he was a self-proclaimed expert on reading people. And she had received knowing gazes from Missandei in regards to Jon Snow even before Tyrion had voiced his assessment of the northern wolf. Lord Varys had been master of whisperers before coming into her service, so it was not far fetched to think he suspected as well. Ser Jorah always had a distant look to him these days, not unlike the one he had during her time with Dario. She knew the old man had a love for her beyond what was appropriate, though thankfully he mostly kept such things to himself. The only relief in this chamber of unspoken secrets was Grey Worm, who thankfully had no investment in his Queen’s romantic entanglements. Instead his full attention was devoted to Jon’s proposed plan.

As their meeting grew to an end, her Hand asked for a word in private. She and Jon exchanged a brief glance as he and the others left, and when there were just her and Tyrion left, she eyed the quiet dwarf for a moment.

“You don’t approve,” she concluded from his silence.

“Quite the contrary,” the dwarf surprised her. “He’s a good man, probably the best man I know, an honest and capable leader with the best of intentions for his people. I couldn’t arrange a better match to rule by your side than this man.”

“Yet I sense a problem,” Daenerys narrowed her eyes cautiously at her clever Hand.

“You are too alike.”

This surprised her. “And what makes that a problem?”

The older man sighed and poured himself a drink. “You’re both stubborn, both headstrong; both have the same proclivity for self-sacrifice. You flew north, risking your life and everything we have worked for to rescue him.”

 ”I flew north to rescue them _all_ ,” she fired up. “If I hadn’t they would have died beyond the Wall, we wouldn’t have caught the wight and the Lannister army would never have joined our cause.”

“And you would still have all three dragons,” Tyrion remarked sadly.

It felt like an icy slap to her face, and she gaped in disbelief at him. The dwarf clearly realized he had gone too far and slowly walked around the table, placing his hand on top of hers.

“I’m sorry. I never meant to indicate...” he stopped himself, taking deep breath before continuing in a calmer voice, “You asked me to be your Hand to help you check your impulses. This doesn’t merely pertain to stop you from burning your enemies with dragon fire, though I have had some trouble reaching you on that matter as well.”

Knowing exactly the incident he was referring to, when they had stood on the battlefield telling the survivors to join their cause, she sighed. “I gave them a choice, they chose.” Her voice was calmer, more resigned.

“To follow a conqueror or die,” Tyrion pointed out. “Not that it matters now, what’s done is done. I won’t fight you over it anymore. But I worry sometimes that you have stopped listening to me. I know my clever plans didn’t exactly pan out the way we hoped, and maybe we could do with more advice from men like Jon Snow. But I am no good to you as your Hand if you don’t at least consider my advice.”

Daenerys considered his words. “And what is your advice?”

Tyrion stood pensively for a moment before he looked back up at her. “I’m not discouraging this relationship, but think carefully about how you want to proceed. The northern lords are naturally suspicious of outsiders and their influences. As Jon proved to you when he came to Dragonstone, they do not hold the Targaryen name in high regard. I’m not sure marrying their King is going to win you any favours.”

She opened her mouth to respond, but Tyrion quickly continued. “Not that we are talking about marriage… yet,” he gave her a knowing look, “I think you need to win their allegiance independently of Jon. Prove to them that their King hasn’t merely been seduced into bending the knee to the Dragon Queen. Then we could think more about making this alliance more… official.”

 

\---

 

She found Jon up on deck, gazing into the vastness of the ocean, the ship gently rocking from side to side. He looked pensive and almost didn’t notice her approach; though just almost. A ghost of a smile washing over his face as she leaned onto the railing next to him, he placed his own hand on top of hers; a minor display of affection.

“I suppose Tyrion knows?” He gave her hand a gentle squeeze; not quite daring to look into her eyes lest he succumbed to whatever desires were running through his body.

She gave small nod, “He’s concerned about how it might affect the alliance; that the northern lords might not approve.”

Jon’s gazed down into the waves, clearly troubled by old memories. “Aye,” he said.

Daenerys decided to press the matter. “What happened?”

“My brother Robb was crowned King in the north. He rallied our bannermen and marched south for war. I wasn’t there with him; I had already joined the Night’s Watch by then. I don’t have all the details of what happened, but from what I know he married for love while betrothed to another. That didn’t go over well with the other lords. He was betrayed by one of another northern house, the Boltons, and killed alongside many loyal men up at the Twins.”

Not knowing how else to comfort him, she placed her other hand on top of his.

“Now they have crowned me King,” Jon continued. “But they are wary. My decision to come to Dragonstone was fought by many, including my own sister and my most loyal followers.”

 Daenerys thought about the northern King who had walked into her throne room, refusing her every request – and he had been the most open-minded among the northerners. “And now you are sailing north with the Mad King’s daughter.”

He chuckled, “Aye. But she’s anything but.”

“And how would you know?” she teased.

Then Jon finally properly gazed into her eyes, filling her with warmth, “Because I’ve seen her heart.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon knew better than to take the teasing tone at face value, he gripped the railing and stared ahead, looking at nothing in particular. “Have you come to ask my intentions?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to Susan for looking through the chapter, helping me when Tyrion was being uncooperative.
> 
> As usual, honest feedback appreciated. Don't be afraid to disagree.

Their budding relationship was living on borrowed time; they both knew it as they lay together in her chambers once more. The ship was steadily moving towards White Harbour and from there they would be on the King’s Road with no more cabins to hide away in, and an uncertain future ahead of them. Jon had always aimed to live purposefully. Join the Night’s Watch, become a ranger, do his part in protecting the realm from what laid beyond the Wall. Give his life if it came to it. Though there had been temptations along the way – a free-minded redhead, a promise of legitimization – he had stood steadfast on his path. Until a mass of treacherous blades had left him bleeding out in the snow and against all that was natural he had risen from the table his fellow brothers laid him on. He wasn’t one to put much stock in fate or prophecy, but even he knew there had been a reason he was allowed to return – and it wasn’t the pity of some higher power.

No, he believed he was meant to fall battling the Night King, and if that meant protecting his siblings, he had made his peace with it. A purposeful death had been the best he could hope for. So, Jon found it a cruel irony that just as he accepted his impending fate, he had found something to live for; this Dragon Queen with her piercing eyes, her gentle heart, and a stubborn streak to rival his own. Jon had never longed more for a different fate. He wanted to see the world she could build, see the babe she didn’t believe she could have rest snugly in her arms, and to lay with her in bed every night until old age finally took them. He wished dearly he had more than moments to steal away, but a selfish part of him took what he could.

He’d been certain she’d drifted off to sleep earlier, her breath calm and even, but it appeared she had merely been deep in thought, and he felt the tips of her fingers trace the ridges of his scars. “How is it you left the Night’s Watch?” Daenerys pondered quietly.

“S’long story,” Jon murmured into her hair, the scent of her sent warmth coursing through his body.

“I thought the oaths were for life.”

“They are.”

She lifted her head off his chest, and looked into his eyes, hers wide and understanding, “Knife to the heart.”

Jon nodded, gravely, “Some brothers took issue with my decision to let the wildlings south of the wall. They named me traitor.”

“And murdered you for it,” she concluded, gazing at the ridges her fingers were tracing on his skin; his own roamed freely over her skin, tracing her every peak and valley, every inch of it soft and unmarred.

Their bodies told quite opposite stories; his scarred and battle worn, hers untainted. “What do they mean when they call you Unburnt?” he wondered out loud.

There was a trace of distant sadness in her eyes, “I walked into my husband’s funeral pyre,” she offered.

“What possessed you to do that?”

“If you ask the few who witnessed it, they would deem it madness. But I just knew the fire wouldn’t harm me. It melted the fabric off my skin, it woke my dragons from petrified eggs, and when the fire died out, I sat in the ashes with them, not a mark on me.”

She sat up as if to further prove to him the fire had made no marks on her, and his gaze studied her as he let his hands wander up her thighs, across her stomach, sliding up along the side of her breasts. Daenerys had a surprising tolerance for cold for someone so full of fire; perhaps even because of it, but here she visibly shivered. Her skin puckered where his fingers traced, her breath hitched, and eyes darkened; her desire for him as evident as his was for her.

 

\---

 

It was not yet midday when he stood portside, making out the scenery they were passing by. They were not yet in the proper north, though they were fast approaching if the weather was anything to judge by. The jagged shorelines held patches of white and the clouds were heavy with snow, winter was moving south. Jon surmised they were somewhere outside of the Fingers. Soon the ship would turn westwards, though it would still be a few days before they reached White Harbour. His impending homecoming filled him equally with longing and dread. Sansa’s raven had alluded to Bran’s new state of mind but said little of Arya.

Jon hadn’t seen either of them since his departure for the Wall. Bran had still been recovering from his fall, and Arya had headed to King’s Landing with Sansa and Father – only to go missing when Father was taken. Knowing Sansa’s story of survival, he dreaded to learn Arya’s. He could only imagine the horrors she had faced wherever it was she had gone. Dispelling unpleasant thoughts from his head, he focused on the fact that the three of them were safe and together, and that they would look out for one another. ‘ _The lone wolf dies, but the pack survives’_.

Father would say this whenever any of them squabbled. He especially aimed the words at Sansa and Arya who never got along as children, though he and Robb had their fair share of disagreements as well. He always envied Robb growing up; the true born son destined to become lord of Winterfell, while Jon, a bastard had always been destined for the Wall; envied his mother's love, where Jon had none – no knowledge of who she was or if she even cared to know him. Father always promised he would tell him about her one day, but in the end the secret died with him.

A stubby hand reached to grab the railing next to him, and Jon turned to see the Queen’s Hand standing next to him. Furs wrapped around him for warmth, he appeared even smaller than he really was.

“Winter is coming,” Tyrion mused. “You Starks do have a dramatic way of stating the obvious.”

Jon turned his gaze back to the white clad shoreline; though never a Stark in name he had all the same lived the words of Father, “Makes us right in the end.”

“There is that.” The dwarf considered, “Though a bit ominous for my taste. Leaves little to enjoy in life if all one ever does is prepare for the worst; although when I think of it, I cannot say you have been particularly guilty of this neglect of late.”

Jon knew better than to take the teasing tone at face value, he gripped the railing and stared ahead, looking at nothing in particular. “Have you come to ask my intentions?”

There was a moment of silence, as if the man pondered to do just that. “I believe our Queen has told you about her predicament.”

Jon furrowed his brows in confusion.

“She cannot produce heirs,” Tyrion clarified.

“I’ve heard as much.”

“Does that bother you?” The dwarf studied him carefully.

Jon thought to his childhood filled equally of love and hatred. Father had never loved him any different than his trueborn children, but all the same Lady Stark had never let him forget what he was, and what he represented. When Jon took the black, the vow most men took issue with he had no trouble taking. He didn’t wish a bastard’s life on any child. “I swore not to father children long ago.”

“You are not in the Night’s Watch anymore,” Tyrion gently reminded.

“Aye, but I made my peace with it all the same.”

“And your northern subjects? You don’t think they will object to a King without an heir to follow?”

Jon thought of raised swords and proclamations; of bickering northern houses rallying to name him King as Robb had been before him. “My people are a hardy folk, Lord Tyrion. I suspect they’d rather choose their next King than have one provided for them.”

“And yet you are bringing them a Queen.”

“I’ve upheld my promise. I travelled south for two things; Dragon glass and aid in the Great War. I return with both.”

“I’m sure your lords will be grateful for the contribution, but I remember a stubborn King insisting his people would never accept a southern ruler.”

Jon simply nodded to himself; he imagined they would resist her at first, just as he had.

“I don’t claim to know the northern lords like you do,” Tyrion hesitated, “But I know men. Our Queen is rather beautiful, and if the men see you look at her the way I have seen you do, which would they find more likely? That she won their King’s allegiance, or seduced him into submission?”

Jon narrowed his eyes at the dwarf, “I believe there is more to the northern houses than you give them credit, Lord Tyrion.”

“I want nothing more than to be proven wrong,” Tyrion sighed. “Know that I have no desire to tear young love apart. It simply falls to me as Hand to think pragmatic, because the matters of the heart rarely are.”

“You deem yourself an expert on such matters?”

A sunken look settled on the Hand’s face, betraying a hidden sorrow. “It’s why I drink,” he offered before walking off.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You concern yourself with my reception, Lord Tyrion,” she reminded the dwarf. “Tell me, how do you see the northern lords receiving me should I arrive by carriage like some dainty princess, while their own King strides in on horseback?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to my friend, Susan for reading over it for me as always. As usual I appreciate honest feedback :)

After weeks of sailing, it felt as her insides were still rocking steadily with the waves though her feet were now firmly planted on solid ground. The air smelled heavy of salt and especially fish, and her stomach churned ever so slightly. The sensation abated when they moved further away from the port and nearby market.

The envoy meant to greet them appeared delayed, but there was no time to wait idly by with supplies to move through the city. The Unsullied and part of the Dothraki horde would move the train up the King’s Road, while both monarchs and their advisors intended to ride ahead. At least that was Daenerys’ impression before her eyes landed on the carriage waiting with the horses.

She gazed between it and the men advising her, “Am I right to assume this is meant for me?”

“These are dangerous roads, my Queen,” Jorah reminded her. “Best take precautions.”

“And here I thought the idea of sailing together was to promote unity,” Daenerys couldn’t resist giving Jon a subtle yet sly look. “Or was I mistaken?”

She’d give him this; the northern King at least had the decency to turn crimson at her implication.

“A compromise, Your Grace,” Tyrion stepped between the two monarchs, as if to physically remind them both of his previous warnings. “No need to invite more trouble than we have to.”

Daenerys considered it. Her eyes wandered across some of her Dothraki riders tending to the horses. It was strange to see them all clad in heavy furs. Even in this very northern garb they were easy to single out. “Somehow I think my presence will make little difference in that regard.”

“Nevertheless it’s still a long journey,” Davos cut in, “Ten days ride at least, Your Grace, not taking the weather into effect. You might come to appreciate the comfort.”

“I’m no stranger to riding, Ser. Most of my time with the Khalasar was spent on horseback.”

As if her past intended to remind her, she spotted a white mare among the horses, not unlike the one she had once been gifted by her Khal all those years ago. It both put a smile on her face and a hint of sadness in her chest. Her horse perishing in the red waste had been her last tie to her old life; and it had spurred her to send out riders, which lead her to Qarth, where she had shed the last of her naivety and come into her own. It seemed oddly appropriate to choose this kindred horse to carry her on her next journey.

Though more used to mounting dragons these days, Daenerys found she had far from forgotten old habits. As the animal was returned to her, saddled and prepared, she pulled herself up with ease, swinging her leg over, straddling the horse in one swift motion. Though she had made up her mind, she still spotted the objection in her Hand’s eyes.

“You concern yourself with my reception, Lord Tyrion,” she reminded the dwarf. “Tell me, how do you see the northern lords receiving me should I arrive by carriage like some dainty princess, while their own King strides in on horseback?”

He chose not to reply.

 

\---

 

“Tell me about Winterfell.”

They rode side by side a few paces ahead of their group. Jorah and Davos had chosen to trail behind them with Lord Manderly who had eventually joined them in White Harbour, apologizing profusely upon his arrival for keeping them waiting. Daenerys didn’t yet have a measure of the man, he neither seemed particularly welcoming nor opposed to her presence; it was like he was holding off on his verdict. This didn’t bother her too much, though Tyrion’s warning hanging heavy over her; she acknowledged to herself that it would be unwise to let Jon sleep in her tent no matter how much she would want him to. She suspected Jon had reached a similar conclusion, and they had so far been careful not to seem overtly familiar with one another. There had been an attempt at discussing strategy for the war to come, but with the wind picking up behind them, it had dawned on them that their words didn’t carry far enough for their travel companions to hear, and their conversation took more of a personal turn.

“It’s not as grand or ornate as Dragonstone, Your Grace, but ‘tis home.” There was warmth to Jon’s voice; like the word itself was all the description needed to convey what the castle meant to him.

For Daenerys the concept of home was foreign, something she had been told of, but never truly experienced. She and her brother had been moved around a lot as children, and while never lacking for comforts, their company generally wealthy men hoping to earn favour with the Targaryen prince should he take back the throne, they had never belonged. Only one place had stood out, and all she could remember was a red door and a lemon tree outside her window.

“And you were close to your family?” She knew he had lost two brothers and believed two more siblings to be dead as well, but he had yet to really speak of his family.

“Some more than others,” was Jon’s reply. “Robb and I would rival one another, but it was mostly good natured, even though he was trueborn and I a bastard. Sansa and I were never close; she favoured her mother too much for that. Bran and Rickon were still little when I left for the wall, especially Rickon, who would trail behind us everywhere we went. Bran used to love to climb the towers; he knew every rock, every crevice. Lady Stark hated it. Father would chastise him to please her, but he never worried.”

Though Daenerys had never met any of the Stark siblings, it was like they came alive in her mind. Jon had a proper love for his siblings, that much was clear; though there was also something else in his voice; a sense of regret.

“He wanted to be a knight, but his fall off the old tower took away the use of his legs,” Jon explained. “He hadn’t yet woken when I left for the Wall. I thought him dead, twice. First when they hung two burnt bodies in the courtyard presenting them as him and Rickon. The second time when my friend, Sam, told me he’d seen him past the Wall.”

“But he isn’t,” she gently reminded him. “He’s safely waiting for you at Winterfell.”

“Aye, but in what state?” Jon pondered grimly. “Sansa suffered horrors at the hands of Ramsay Bolton. Same man put an arrow through my baby brother right before me. Truth be told, I dread to see what has become of Bran.”

Daenerys desperately wanted to reach out to him, but held back in restraint, reminding herself that though their words were private; they were being closely observed. “Didn’t you say you have another sister?”

“Arya,” and there was a smile back on Jon’s face. “She was always too wild to be tamed; riding horses, practicing her marksmanship; coming to supper with mud on her sleeves and fresh scrapes on her knees. She never cared that I was a bastard, and she never cared to be a lady. Before we left Winterfell I had the smith make her a sword, just the right size for her. I never saw a bigger smile on her.”

Jon’s brotherly devotion was such a foreign concept to her, her own had shown her so little.

“I never knew my oldest brother. Not so strange, seeing as he died around the same time I was born, but I knew so little of him. Of course, Viserys would always speak him, of what a great warrior he was; how much truth there was to that I cannot say.” It wasn’t his skill she questioned, but Viserys’ truthfulness. “When Ser Barristan came into my service, he told me Rhaegar never liked killing, that he loved singing. He said Rhaegar would make him go with him into King’s Landing so he could sing to people. It conflicts with every other account I have of him, but Ser Barristan never struck me as a liar.”

Jon frowned, “I heard he took my aunt, Lyanna. They said Rhaegar kidnapped and raped her. My grandfather and uncle rode south to petition the Mad King and were burnt alive for it. Father rode off to war with his friend, Robert, but they couldn’t save her. He buried her in the crypts beneath Winterfell.”

Unease went through Daenerys; this was yet another account of her brother that didn’t measure up to the rest. “It’s hard for me to decide what is true anymore. Part of me wishes I could have at least one brother that was good.”

She thought of the brother she grew up with, his threats and intimidation; how she used to fear his wrath, how he made her feel so small. Daenerys also recalled the sight of her brother as Drogo had poured molten gold over his head; his shrieks of pain and the clank of the metal hitting the ground.

“Viserys; he was cruel. He sold me to my husband in exchange for a Dothraki army; and then resented me for winning their love. All I was to him was a pawn to use as he pleased.”

Genuine horror washed over Jon’s face, and clearly remembering what she had told him that day on the cliff about naming her dragons for her brothers, he asked, “Why would you name your dragon for someone like that?”

She swallowed heavily as she thought of her fallen dragon, her Viserion. She imagined anyone who knew Viserys would wonder the same, and how could she explain it?

“He may have been cruel,” she settled on. “But he was still the only family I ever knew. My mother died bringing me into this world, my brother and father gone before I could know them; even my son never lived.”

Jon’s breath hitched slightly in surprise, “Your son?” It seemed he was unaware there had once been life growing in her womb.

“Rhaego,” she spoke her son’s name, remembering the beautiful boy she had been tempted with in the house of the Undying, “Named for my brother and my husband.”

“What happened?”

“My husband was sick from a festered wound, and when he fell from his horse, I foolishly thought I could save him; without him and Rhaego I would truly be alone in the world. I trusted in blood magic, and it cost me my son. I never got to hold him; by the time I woke he had already been taken away.”

She fell silent. The pain of it all had over time been reduced to a dull ache. “I’m sorry,” Jon finally said, his dark eyes reflecting a genuine understanding.

Daenerys shook her head, “It was long ago.” Without that loss, she wouldn’t be Mother of Dragons; she wouldn’t be _mhysa_ to the freed slaves. Truth be told, she wouldn’t be Daenerys. She’d simply be Khaleesi of the Dothraki, second to her Khal. And that wasn’t her anymore.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Heard you’re King, now,” she murmured, and he released his grip just enough so he could look upon her.
> 
> “Still your bastard brother,” Jon assured her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to my friend Susan for reading through this for me and for her encouragements.

Relief washed over Jon as he finally sighted the castle in the horizon. With the wind picking up the further north they got, the choice had come down to either set up camp and wait out the brewing storm with the rest of the train, or ride hard for Winterfell before it bore down upon them. The choice had landed on a split decision, with Davos and Jorah choosing to follow their respective monarchs, whereas Lord Manderly had reluctantly accepted his King’s request to stay behind with the non-riding members of the Queen’s small council to escort them and the following train once the weather allowed for it.

Jon had come to regret their decision about halfway through as the air around them thickened with heavy snowfall, but by then there was no turning back. A true northerner, he was used to the discomforts of snow: the way it settled in his hair, melted against his skin, and treacherously slid into the inner layers of his clothing. He could not say the same for Daenerys whose heavily cloaked figure had begun to visibly shiver. Furs and leather only did so much, even with layers crossing one another; the wind carried the snow wherever there was bare skin to be found.

It seemed the sight of their destination gave the four riders a second wind, and they spurred their horses on through the deepening snow. The sky hinted at the approaching night, though the last light of the day was still fighting its way through the heavy clouds when they rode through the gates. Jon thought back to the day King Robert had come riding, and was in all honesty relieved to see there was no similar fanfare to be seen. He swung down from his horse, passing the reins to the waiting stable boy, looking around at his childhood home. Winterfell was bustling with activity; household staff chopping firewood, moving barrels, baskets, carts and buckets across the courtyard; smiths banging on metal in the forge; men and women, young and old practicing with sword, bow and spear.

A familiar voice called out his name, and he turned his head to see a flash of red hair as his sister crossed the yard towards him; and for a moment every squabble between them, every disagreement was forgotten as he enveloped Sansa in a massive hug.

“I see the north has been in good hands,” he commended, as he let her go.

“And I hear you gave it away,” Sansa kept her voice low and discreet, but did nothing else to hide her frustration with him. She gazed over his shoulder, “Is that her?”

Jon turned in time to see the Daenerys dismount from her horse, exchanging a few words with Jorah who took the reins of the horse, leading it towards the stables. As she turned towards them, she finally lowered her hood, revealing her identifiable silver hair, all tied up in a nest of intricate braids which she had worn throughout their ride up the King’s Road. Bits and pieces of her updo had escaped its confines over time, sticking damply to her face and neck, yet as she brushed some of it out of her eyes, even drenched and covered in heavy furs as opposed to her usual more shapely garb she still somehow retained a regal quality to her, something about the way she carried herself, chin raised, shoulders straight. Though low in height, it was still as though she towered above them all.

“Sansa, I would like you to meet Queen Daenerys of House Targaryen,” Jon spoke as the young Queen approached them, “Your Grace, my sister Sansa Stark.”

“Lady Sansa,” Daenerys greeted the redhead kindly.

Sansa studied the Dragon Queen, carefully, looking between her and Jon. She made no pretence about distrusting this alliance the two of them had forged, and for a moment Jon had to wonder if perhaps it was he who needed to win the northern approval. After a moment’s contemplation, however, proving she hadn’t forgotten old courtesies Sansa turned her gaze back to Daenerys and gave the Queen a proper curtsy, followed by a polite; “Welcome to Winterfell, Your Grace.”

“I did tell you the north would be a hard sell, Your Grace,” he attempted to lighten the mood. Even though he was sure Sansa would put two and two together eventually, Jon thought it best to keep up with the formalities.

“So I recall.” Either she had a softer disposition towards other women, or the amusement in her voice came from remembering the way the two of them had butted heads upon their first meeting at Dragonstone. He suspected it might be the latter, as Daenerys’ eyes ghosted over him before turning back to his sister, telling her; “This one had the audacity of opposing me in my own throne room.”

Sansa seemed unsure what to make of the Queen’s calm and kindly demeanour; Jon supposed it was natural, his sister having lived her formative years amidst liars and conspirers down in King’s Landing. Eventually she seemed to snap out of her trance.

“Forgive my manners, Your Grace,” she admonished herself. “Here I am, keeping you out in the cold when you are clearly freezing and tired from your journey. Allow me to escort you to your chambers, we’ll of course have a bath drawn for you, and supper served to your room if you so wish.”

“I thank you for your hospitality.”

“Strange,” Jon suddenly realized there was someone lacking from his sister’s side, “that Lord Baelish has yet to greet us with his presence.” Not that he minded his absence; frankly Jon had little tolerance for the man despite his contribution to the battle. There was something about the way he talked about his sister, and Jon had been most troubled to leave him in her presence when he rode south.

There was a troubling darkness to Sansa’s face as she maybe a bit too calmly said; “We don’t have to worry about Littlefinger anymore.”

“The north remembers,” a voice came from behind him.

Jon turned on the spot, spying a familiar tiny figure observing him from afar – and his heart stopped. She had barely grown since he last saw her, though her face spoke of troubles far beyond anyone her age ought to know. Gone were the braids and flowing dresses her mother would make her, replaced by tight fitted leather, her shorter hair pulled back for practicality. Only one thing remained the same; the skinny sword sheathed by her side, though it was now accompanied by a more adorned blade, Valyrian steel by the looks of it; Littlefinger’s blade. She stood tall, both hands resting at her back, her eyes studying him carefully.

Then suddenly the tension broke as her face broke into a wide grin; she took charge and ran into his open arms just as he dropped to his knees in the snow. He hugged her so tightly he feared he would break her in half. She hugged him back even harder. No words passed between them for the longest time, all Jon could think was that all was right in the world again now that he had his baby sister back in his arms. He didn’t feel the cold, just her arms tightly around him.

“Heard you’re King, now,” she murmured, and he released his grip just enough so he could look upon her.

“Still your bastard brother,” Jon assured her.

Arya wrinkled her nose, “Never liked that word.”

Jon smiled, resting his forehead against hers, “You and me both.”

 

\---

 

“Where did you go?” Jon asked his sister, as the two of them sat in what used to be Father and Lady Catelyn’s chambers, though was now his own despite his attempt at giving it to Sansa.

“Everywhere,” Arya said simply.

They sat by the small table near the roaring fireplace, a bowl of stew each in front of them, though they had barely touched it.

She had still been eleven when everything had gone down in King’s Landing, and it was hard to fathom how she not only had managed to stay alive, yet also managed to stay out of the clutches of the wrong kind of people, “How come no one found you?”

She gave him a pointed look, “Many people found me – just not the right people,” she paused and frowned. “No, that’s not right. Some of them did try to help, they just failed, or I failed to let them.”

“Who?” Jon asked.

“First there was Yoren,” Arya recalled, the name familiar to Jon, though he couldn’t yet place it. “He came from the Night’s Watch to see Father. And he was there when Joffrey called for Father’s head to be taken; he stopped me from watching it happen. And he smuggled me out of King’s Landing, disguised as a boy, planning to take me back to Winterfell.”

“He never made it back,” Jon realized, and Arya shook her head grimly.

“We were ambushed by Lannister soldiers; they were looking for someone, at first I thought it was me, only it wasn’t. One of the men put a sword down Yoren’s neck and took the rest of us to Harrenhal as prisoners. Tywin Lannister realized I was a girl, but not who I was and made me his cup bearer. That’s when I first heard Robb had gone off to war; heard he won quite a few battles.”

“I almost rode to join him,” Jon admitted. “I took a horse in the middle of the night, knowing full well they’d take my head for it.”

“But you turned around,” Arya noted.

“Aye,” he nodded. “Some of the brothers rode after me; I couldn’t let them be killed for leaving, and they wouldn’t go back if I didn’t come with them.”

“Good,” she said after some consideration, “You wouldn’t have changed anything. Robb had thousands of men following him, and they couldn’t stop what happened. If you’d gone, you would just have been killed as well.”

He didn’t want to comment on that, didn’t want to mention that he had in fact been killed once already. “How long were you at Harrenhal?” he asked instead.

“Not long, when Tywin took his army to meet Robb’s, he left me behind with the Mountain. I managed to escape with two friends. We didn’t get far before we were captured by the Brotherhood without Banners. They sold one to an Inn at the Crossroads, and they were bringing me to Riverrun.” Arya paused and scoffed to herself, “Or so they said. My other friend wanted to join them, and they sold _him_ off to some mysterious Red Woman. I ran away, and the Hound found me. He took me to the Twins to sell me to Mother and Robb – but it was too late.”

Her eyes were dark, and Jon realized what this meant. His baby sister had seen the Red Wedding as it had famously been dubbed, and the mere though of it horrified him. The images in his mind haunted his own sleep; he could only imagine what it did to her. Then an even more horrible thought struck him; what if she had been there just one day earlier?

“Did you know they sewed Grey Wind’s head to his body?” she asked.

Jon shook his head, “No,” he croaked. That particular detail never reached him.

“They strung him up on his horse, paraded him through the crowd, chanting ‘King in the North’. They were cheering like they had just cut down some tyrant, and not betrayed their own King.”

He took her hands into his own, and looked into her eyes. “House Bolton is gone, now.”

The icy calm to which she spoke her reply sent chills through his veins as he understood her implication; “So is House Frey.”


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “How come you don’t care?”
> 
> She backed away slightly, taking in the man in front of her. This man who had let the world define him for something he could not help.
> 
> “Why should I?” she challenged back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to Susan for reading through this for me, as always.

Sleep should have come easy for her, only it wasn’t. As Daenerys lay in bed, covered with heavy furs, listening to the wood crackling in the fireplace, she listed all the reasons she should have easily drifted off by now. She was beyond tired, not just from the day’s hard ride, but the whole three week’s journey on horseback. The heat of the bath had soothed her aching muscles and warmed her frozen limbs, threatening to lull her to sleep while she still sat in it. The furs surrounding her kept her warm against the cold draughts pressing through every crack it could find. Her belly was full from a savoury supper, and her mind pleasantly void of any worries. Had she not lived greater parts of her life constantly on the move, she would have blamed the strange surroundings, however her room was pleasant enough, and the people hospitable. She lacked no immediate comforts, yet she remained restless.

Giving up on the idea of sleep, she climbed out of her covers, shivering as her feet hit the cold stone, and the draught from the window licked her bare limbs. Her own clothes still drying off by the fire, she looked to the stack of garments provided for her. Sansa had apologized for the poor fit when she brought them, and Daenerys had to hold back a laugh so not to offend the Lady of Winterfell. True they did not cling to her form as her own custom sewn garb would have, and the skirt was perhaps a bit long for her, but they were hardly the worst she’d been made to wear; more importantly they were warm, though the wool felt coarse against her skin.

The castle carried some signs of life; however her immediate surroundings remained mostly still. Every now and then she would hear the clang of metal, some of the smiths still at it by the sounds of it. Other times it would be the distant shuffling of feet, or the creaking of a door. None of them were ever close, so it startled her to suddenly see a mass of white fur in front of her. The creature was massive, much bigger than what she expected wolves to be, yet he did not appear menacing, not even with the red eyes. He looked to be studying her, his head slightly tilted to the right, and then he slowly started moving towards her. Daenerys remembered when Jon had first met Drogon; how he had stupidly held out his ungloved hand to the dragon. Perhaps it had been instinct grown from literally growing up around wolves, to allow the creatures to smell him before approaching.

Deciding to trust in what Jon had said about the family pets, that they would not harm anyone they didn’t deem a threat; Daenerys carefully lifted her hand, presenting it to the animal in front of her. His nostril widened as he took in her scent; then moved in closer, allowing her to run her hand along his head as he nuzzled into her stomach. Then to her surprise, the beast nipped down between her legs, giving her a proper wolf greeting.

“Ghost,” Jon warned from behind him, and the wolf retreated, his master giving her a most sheepish look, “I’m so sorry, he’s usually not so direct with strangers.”

She wanted to laugh at his reddening face, so different from the lover she had shared her bed with every night on the way to White Harbour. Part of her wanted to point out the wolf had gone nowhere he hadn’t already, though she didn’t think Jon would be able to take it – not when they were still trying hard to keep an appropriate distance.

“I heard they call you the White Wolf,” she said instead. “Now I know why; he’s beautiful.”

Jon smiled, running his own hand through the wolf’s head. “Ghost has been with me since he was a pup. We found his mother rammed to death by a stag and a litter of six pups with her.”

“One for each of the Stark children,” she realized.

He nodded, “The direwolf is the sigil of House Stark, and I believed we were meant to have them. Ghost was the runt of the litter; an appropriate choice for a bastard.”

Daenerys frowned, “You keep doing that, calling yourself a bastard like it’s who you are.”

“A clever man once told me to never forget what I am, because the rest of the world would not; to wear it like armour, so it would never be used to hurt me.”

There was familiarity to those words, like she knew the mind behind them. “Sounds like something Tyrion would say,” she mused.

“Aye,” he nodded.

“And you think that’s who you are?”

“Isn’t it, though?”

Daenerys shrugged, “It’s a circumstance of your birth, like Stormborn is mine. Would you say Stormborn is who I am?”

“You use it like it is,” he pointed out, slowly stepping towards her.

She considered it; it was true she used all her names to the fullest, what better way to strike a first impression than her long list of names and attributes? When she first set out with her Khalasar in the middle of the red waste, though her dragons had been miracles made flesh, they had still been fragile, nothing to strike fear or awe in strangers. Without her name, she wouldn’t even have been received by Qarth, let alone allowed entry. Her name had saved her life that day and the lives of the people following her.

“There’s power in names,” she finally said. “For a long time it was the only power I had; Stormborn, Targaryen. I never earned them, but I used them, even lived by them. They don’t tell a story of me like my other titles do.”

“Then what other titles should I use instead?” he asked curiously, now close enough for her to touch.

Daenerys pondered for a bit, “I don’t know if you need that many new titles. The white wolf talks of your strength; Lord Commander and King of the North of your leadership.” She ran her hand over his chest, the leather hiding the one thing about him that would impress most strangers, “Perhaps the Resurrected.”

“Circumstances,” Jon argued. “It happened to me, I never earned it.”

“Still, you cannot claim it doesn’t affect who you are now,” she countered.

“Being a bastard affects me.”

“Would it still if no one else cared?”

“I suppose not, but they do. I’ve heard it all my life.”

Daenerys hadn’t realized how close they had got, until she felt his breath on her. Three weeks of distance, three weeks of not allowing themselves to show any open affection towards one another. Now suddenly alone, neither could resist leaning into a kiss. It was all they could allow themselves to do. His right hand cupped her face, the other falling to the small of her back. Though there was heat behind it, they paced themselves and separated before it could evolve further. Their foreheads rested against one another, and she heard his voice barely above a whisper; “How come you don’t care?”

She backed away slightly, taking in the man in front of her. This man who had let the world define him for something he could not help.

“Why should I?” she challenged back.

“You’re a Queen,” he answered lamely.

“And you’re a King.” When Jon didn’t broach it further, she continued, “The Dothraki have no family names; the Unsullied not even their given names. My small council consists of disgraced Westerosi lords, and former slaves. My husband was a Dothraki Khal; my closest confidant was taken slave when she was a young girl. I have never thought less of any of them for it, so why should your surname matter to me?”

The way he looked at her spoke volumes of what he wanted to do to her, for her, it made her think of the man she had found outside her cabin door that night; his eyes dark with desire, a question for permission within them. His fingers brushed a stray lock of her hair behind her ear, his thumb brushed across her cheek, gracing her lips. He leaned in to kiss her again – only to be startled by the sudden fast approach of shuffling feat. They jumped apart, just in time for a plump, bearded man to appear behind Jon. He was dressed in black leather with a just as black fur-lined coat hanging over his shoulders.

“Oh, pardon me,” he quickly said to her before his eyes took notice of Jon. “Jon? I didn’t realize you were back.”

Jon turned around, instant recognition in his face; the two men shared a brief hug. “What are you doing here?”

The other man shrugged. “We received Bran’s message at the Citadel; I couldn’t convince the Maesters to believe in it. So, I figured if I can’t convince them, and they keep everything about the Long Night under lock and key, I’d be of better use here in the north than in Oldtown.” There was a bit of a pause before he added, “I heard what happened – I’m sorry I wasn’t there.”

Jon shook his head with a frown, telling his friend, “They surely would have killed you next, I’m glad you and Gilly had gone when you did.”

“You’re with the Night’s Watch,” Daenerys realized, though she hadn’t intended on saying it out loud.

The stranger turned to her, “Oh, I’m sorry,” he said kindly, “I should have introduced myself. I’m Samwell Tarly.”

“Sam, this is Queen Daenerys of House Targaryen,” Jon filled in for his friend, whose eyes widened in understanding, and if she read him right a hint of confusion.

“Nice to make your acquaintance, Lord Tarly,” Daenerys told the man.

“Oh, I’m no lord, Your Grace. My Father had me give up my title when he sent me to the watch.”

She frowned in confusion, wanting to ask the man about what he had so openly revealed to her, but he had already turned to Jon, asking him; “Have you been to see Bran, yet?”

Jon shook his head, “I was on my way when I ran into Queen Daenerys.”

“Right,” Sam frowned. “Best I go with you.”

“Why?” This time it was Jon’s turn to frown in confusion. “Sam?”

Sam hesitated, “I don’t presume to know your brother all that well, however I did meet him that one time. I’m afraid you’ll find Bran isn’t quite himself anymore,” he finished lamely.

 

\---

 

Bran hadn’t answered the knock, but that didn’t deter Jon from pushing the door slightly ajar. The boy was sitting by the roaring fireplace, furs piled on top of him. When they moved closer it became apparent why he hadn’t responded; his eyes were plain white, like they had rolled into the back of his skull and stayed there. Jon dropped to his knees in front of his brother, observing him. The boy did not react to his presence; he simply remained in his trance like state.

“Bran’s a warg?” It sounded like Jon was both asking and answering the question at the same time.

“He calls himself the Three Eyed Raven, now,” Sam supplied, “Not that I completely understand what that all entails, just that he can see things. It’s all a bit confusing, really.”

“How do you know he’s a warg?” Daenerys asked. The phrase wasn’t completely unfamiliar to her, though she couldn’t recall where she had heard it before – perhaps in stories when she was a child?

“I met one among the wildlings,” Jon recounted. “He scouted ahead for them by warging into an eagle flying above us. His eyes would look like that.”

Not long after he had said it, Bran’s eyes changed back to what could only be his normal state. He looked around the room, his eyes first landing on his brother.

“Jon,” he said with a smile.

Jon smiled back, “You’ve grown.” His voice was heavy with brotherly affection.

“I saw you go beyond the wall,” Bran told him, then surprised them all by calmly turning his head to Daenerys. There were no questions in his eyes, no confusion. He looked at her like he knew her and not merely of her; like he didn’t need introductions, didn’t need to deduce who she was from her very telling features. He just knew, like he had been present in her life, and she just failed to remember.

“I’m sorry for what happened,” he said, his voice calm and void of any emotion. An icy chill went through her as he continued, “He waited for you to come; he knew you would be there.”

“Who?” she asked, though part of her understood whom Bran was referring to before he actually said it; there was only one being he could be talking about.

“The Night King,” Bran stated monotonously, “He knew the lake had frozen over again, but he kept waiting.”

“How do you know this?” Jon looked between her and his brother. There was a deeply troubled look on his face.

“I saw it. I didn’t understand it then, but now I know. He needed the dragon to do it.”

Daenerys froze to the spot; dread forming in the pit of her stomach, a sickly sensation came about her as she anticipated what the boy would say next.

“Do what?” she croaked.

“Bring down the wall.”

She felt her legs collapse underneath her, and toppled over, gripping the closest surface she could find for support. A violent bout of dry heaving followed, as the sickly sensation quickly spread out to the tips of her body. She felt Jon reaching out to touch her, but she immediately shook him off. It wasn’t meant as a rejection, though she had no way of preventing him from taking it as such. She just couldn’t breathe; like she had been ripped open, and the notion of comfort from anyone, especially the man who blamed himself almost as much as she did, it was just unbearable to her.

Her dragons were her children; it wasn’t just something she would tell herself, no matter how much it would sound like it. She had felt them inside those eggs like she had felt Rhaego inside her womb. And even more so she had brought them into the world like a mother, raised them like a mother, worried over them like a mother, struggled to discipline them like a mother. Losing Viserion had been like losing another piece of herself, if she closed her eyes she could still so clearly hear his scream as the spear pierced through him, see the light go out of his eyes as he had slowly sunk into the frozen lake. Losing her child had been devastating; to learn that it had all been part of the enemy’s plan; that was unbearable.

Jon was icy white next to her, “The wall has fallen?” he croaked.

“He brought down parts of it by Eastwatch.” Even bringing news of the biggest threat in recent history, Bran’s voice remained chillingly calm and detached. “He’s moving his army past it right now.”

A resolve settled in Jon’s eyes as he turned to Sam, “Go wake Maester Wolkan; have him send ravens to Karhold and the Last Hearth. Tell Ned and Alys a hundred thousand dead march on their homes, and to make for Winterfell at first light. Have them send riders for the wildling camps.” He paused to think, “Alert Shadow Tower and Castle Black; tell them Eastwatch has fallen, and to ride south.”

Sam hesitated, as if he wanted to say something more, but unsure whether he ought to. Finally deciding against it, he turned and left the room.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Young Lyanna Mormont stood up suddenly, “Is it true, Your Grace, that you have bent the knee?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to Susan not only for reading through the chapter, but also for keeping me sane. 
> 
> This chapter was a beast to write, and I had to cut passages I loved, passages I badly wanted to use, that just didn't fit with what this chapter needed to be.

Jon sighed in relief as he read the raven’s scroll delivered to him by Maester Wolkan; it appeared their warning had reached Last Hearth and Karhold in time. Young Ned Umber reported there had been no sight of the army of the dead as of yet, and he had as requested sent a small party to the Gift to extend the warning to the wildlings currently occupying the lands. Jon had yet to hear word back from either Castle Black or Shadow Tower, though he suspected the Night King had little interest in marching his army westward now that he had moved past the wall.

With every day passing new delegates from northern houses arrived, as well as the Queen’s small council, and subsequent army. The most notable arrival, however, had been her two remaining dragons, which had trailed behind the train instead of flying ahead with Daenerys when she and Jon had ridden for Winterfell. Though he had been around her and the dragons for many months now, it still impressed Jon how easily she could command them. Sometimes she spoke to them, her words unfamiliar and exotic, High Valyrian she had told him one night when he asked; her mother tongue. Other times it was as though she needed no words, Drogon simply appeared by her side when wanted. It was even beyond his own bond with Ghost, though then again she was their mother not their master, so he supposed it made sense.

Her army had made camp on the moors outside the Castle, their numbers greater than anything Winterfell or Winter Town could accommodate, even if the Knights of the Vale hadn’t already taken up most of the rooms. When night fell, it seemed like everywhere he looked there was an unending sea of torches and campfires. Their forces strengthened and their smiths finally supplied with the shipment of dragonglass, it felt like they could finally allow themselves at least a sliver of hope of prevailing; though the thought of Viserion and the Night King weighed heavily on Jon.

Daenerys had mostly managed to regain her composure by the time they left Bran’s chambers and walked together to hers. However once the door closed behind them, Jon had pulled her into his arms as her facade crumbled to pieces. It was the first time she had allowed herself to openly cry in front of him – the last time Jon remembered spying tears in her eyes; she had firmly blinked them away despite her raw grief. In that moment of holding her in his arms, he had stopped caring about watchful eyes and proper decorum; instead he had climbed into bed with her and held her long enough for her sobs to die down and her breaths to even.

The intensity in her grief seemed to have calmed in the days that followed, though she still appeared tired, like she wasn’t sleeping properly. And she wasn’t eating well, mainly picking at her food; only taking mouthfuls whenever reminded by her watchful companions, primarily Tyrion and Missandei. Even Ghost seemed to sense her distress, and on a couple of occasions Jon had spotted the wolf resting his head in her lap, allowing her to pet him. He wanted to be the one to see to her, to hold her in the night, however Tyrion had once again rightly pressed the importance of allowing Daenerys the opportunity to prove herself before the northern lords and not have it tainted by their developing relationship. So once again they were back to keeping an appropriate distance, converse and act as allies rather than lovers. Jon had never particularly cared for politics – now he knew he hated it.

 

\---

 

The great hall was filled with the buzzing of dozens of people talking amongst themselves, most of the northern houses represented either by their own Lord or Lady’s presence, others by emissaries. Jon sat along the long table at the front, Sansa next to him as Lady of Winterfell. His other siblings had chosen to sit elsewhere, leaving the remaining two seats for the Queen and her Hand, which seemed appropriate for the occasion.

As Daenerys entered the room, the buzzing of voices intensified, many wary eyes following her and her companion as they made their way to their seats. She was back in the white fur lined coat she had worn beyond the wall, her hair once again intricately braided, and her red cape and dragon-chain wrapped across her torso. She nodded politely to him and Sansa as she took her seat at the other end of the table, Tyrion taking his own seat between his Queen and his former wife, greeting Sansa politely with a “My Lady.”

Jon rose from his chair, and the noise almost instantly died down, all ears attentive to him, “As you no doubt have seen, in these past days our numbers have grown by the tens of thousands. Queen Daenerys of House Targaryen has pledged her forces to fight with us in the Great War, and her dragons as well.”

A rupture of cheer followed, and Jon continued with a smile, “We also return with all the dragonglass we can hope to need, and aim to distribute it between our houses as soon as possible.”

Young Lyanna Mormont stood up suddenly, “Is it true, Your Grace, that you have bent the knee?”

It surprised him that she knew, though when he considered it, the young girl might have merely speculated. He looked around the room, suspicious eyes studying him from every angle; some casting wary glances towards the Targaryen Queen seated to his left. Jon knew they would not accept it at first, suspected they might fight him on it.

“Aye,” he finally said, “I have.”

As expected there were cries of outrage, heads turning to one another, murmurs about Targaryens and the Mad King echoing across the room. Jon was about to address their concerns when he saw a movement in the corner of his eyes. Daenerys had risen from her chair and her eyes commanded the attention of the room.

“My father committed many crimes against the families of the north,” she told the crowd. “I have no illusions of what kind of man he was; I know the Mad King earned his name. But I implore you not to judge a daughter for her father’s sins. I realize there is nothing I can say to right the injustices you suffered at his hand, but I assure you, my lords, that I am not my father.”

“The Long Night is coming,” Jon added. “And whether we survive it or not, we’d be in no shape to mount a defence should the southern armies come to reclaim the North. Now I didn’t bend the knee to secure dragonglass nor armies; both were given freely. I did because Daenerys proved she would fight for what’s right, no matter the odds, no matter the cost. We need someone like that on the throne should we survive.”

“We need to look after our own,” Lord Glover objected. “The south can sod itself for all I care, let them bicker over the Iron Throne until we all rot in the ground; it’s we who give our sons and daughters to this war, not them.”

“My armies will fight side by side with your sons and daughters, my Lord,” Daenerys countered.

“An army of foreigners,” Lord Glover scoffed.

Lord Cerwyn stood up next, and turned to Jon, “We didn’t name you King so you could hand the north over to the first pretty face you saw.”

A collected murmur of ‘Ayes’ followed, and Jon felt himself gripping the table he was leaning on, his blood boiling.

To his surprise it was his sister who stood next; “Are your loyalties so fickle, my lords, that you would name someone King one day and turn your back on him the next?”

“Aye, he was our King until he gave his Kingdom away,” a sullen Lord at the back replied.

Sansa scoffed, “He’s secured the most powerful ally the north could hope for. Are you forgetting we’ve been training children to fight in this war? Your children; your grandchildren; girls and boys who have barely held a sword or shot a bow – how long will any of them last when the Walkers come for us?”

“Pardon me, Lady Sansa,” Lord Glover spoke. “But I seem to recall you were as against submitting the north to southern rule as the rest of us.”

“Her father burned my grandfather and uncle alive,” Sansa arched her brow at the man. “Of course I was against it. For all I knew, Jon could be killed the minute he stepped foot on Dragonstone. Only he wasn’t; somehow he convinced her to abandon her war for the Iron Throne in order to join us in ours.”

Jon gave his sister a grateful look before he turned back to the room. “You may not like my decision, but if you still trust me, then you must accept it. We cannot sit here and squabble over who will rule us, when we don’t know if there’ll even be an ‘us’ to rule. We must prepare for war.”

“We are already preparing,” Lord Glover replied, “We have been for the whole time you’ve been gone.”

“No, I mean right now,” Jon clarified, allowing the room a moment to prepare for what came next. “Bran has seen the Night King move on Eastwatch – he says the Wall has fallen, and the dead move on us as we speak.”

Not surprisingly the room erupted in a chaos of voices, as men and women turned to one another in disbelief.

“The good news is that we reached Karhold and Last Hearth in time,” Jon continued, raising his voice high enough so he could hold their attention. “The Umbers and Karstarks are moving south as we speak, so far they have reported no sight of the army of the dead.”

“I thought the Umbers and Karstarks were to mount the first defence against the Night King,” Lord Royce pointed out.

“Aye,” Jon nodded, “I had aimed to send a shipment of dragonglass north upon my return; without it they have few effective weapons against the wights. As we stand now, our best chance is a united attack. If we split our forces, the Night King stands to pick us off piece by piece, adding us to his army.”

He turned to look at Daenerys, dreading what he needed to say next.

“Also we need dragon fire. The Night King has many creatures in his control, not just men. When I last went beyond the wall I encountered bears; and now it appears he has a dragon as well.”

Another wave of outcries came upon the room. Jon could not blame them, of course, less than a year ago none of them had even known dragons had come back into existence – to now have one in the hands of their greatest enemy was nothing short of a nightmare made real. Many a wary eyed gaze fell upon the Targaryen Queen, unspoken accusations hanging thickly in the air.

Finally it was Lyanna Mormont who stood and asked, “How did it happen, Your Grace?”

“A fool’s errand,” Jon answered her truthfully, “I lead a raid beyond the wall, we aimed to capture a wight; to bring irrefutable proof to Cercei Lannister and her followers that the threat is real and is coming for all of us, unless we band together to stop it. As the army moved upon us I sent my fastest man running to call for aid, and upon my request Daenerys flew her dragons north. The Night King brought one down with an ice spear before we could escape. It sunk to the bottom of a frozen lake – I do not know how he managed to raise it.”

Jon looked across the room, his people silent for once.

“You want to know why I bent the knee?” he asked, his eyes locking on hers. “She’s the mother of dragons, they are the most precious thing to her, yet she risked her children’s lives to rescue a band of fools beyond the wall. And unlike Cercei who would use us as a shield so she can keep her crown, Daenerys did not hesitate to pledge her children again, all to save a people who would refuse her reign.”


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Well, I suppose that could have gone worse,” Tyrion mused, mostly to himself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, a massive thanks to my friend, Susan for her support and for reading over everything for me before I post it.
> 
> I know this chapter took longer to post than the others, and I'm afraid you'll have to expect a longer wait for the next one as well, between work, new flatmate moving in and the coming week long parental visit, writing opportunities will be scarce for me - on the upside for me I will finally get to show mom all of season 7 and introduce her to the wonders of jonerys :P

 “Well, I suppose that could have gone worse,” Tyrion mused, mostly to himself.

Daenerys didn’t bother to comment, just walked silently beside him out of the great hall and into the busy courtyard. There her pace slowed as she took in the hustle and bustle around her, and she found herself longing for Dragonstone all of a sudden.

It honestly surprised her how much she missed it. Though it was her ancestral home and the location of her birth, as well as carried the Targaryen family history in its very walls – it hadn’t felt like the home she had always envisioned it would be. Home was an abstract concept that she couldn’t say she completely understood – not in the way Jon clearly felt at home at Winterfell. It was present in every fibre of his being, the way he would sometimes stare at the most mundane object or location and reminisce, how his eyes would soften, how he would smile however vaguely at whatever memory he was recalling. Daenerys couldn’t say she had that, her own memories so spread across the world she sometimes had trouble associating them with any specific location, especially those of her childhood.

What she found herself missing about Dragonstone was the way it offered her freedom of solitude like no other place she could remember living. Though she’d been waging a war from the moment she landed – the island itself had been peaceful. For the first time in her adult life, she’d felt secure enough to dismiss her guards and wander off by herself, whether it was to explore the castle or the cliffs surrounding it. At Winterfell she felt as though she was the only person there not free to wander alone. She did understand the necessity with the northern houses holding grudges towards her father, but at the same time Winterfell was not Mereen. This was Jon’s home, and the northern people had elected him their King; whatever they thought of her, she somehow couldn’t imagine any of them would make an attempt on their self appointed King’s own guest.

She heard the roaring of her children coming from outside the wall. The dragons had found their spot by the edge of the Wolfswood outside the castle walls, though for the most part they enjoyed flying off, hunting for their next meal. At the moment, however they seemed content to rest on the ground as she neither saw nor heard wings flapping against the winter winds; and she felt the sudden urge to go to them, except doing so meant going beyond the outer walls, and it would be unwise to dismiss her guards if she did. Even if what she wanted more than anything was to have a little respite from the hustle and bustle of the crowd, especially after the reception she had just been given by the northern houses.

It hadn’t surprised her; from everything Jon had told her about his people, she had come to expect resistance at first. They were a people of action, not words, and it would ultimately be actions that would win them over. Bringing her armies and dragons north had been the first step, but it would actually be fulfilling her promise to fight alongside them that would convince them in the end. Although she knew this, their reaction had still been taxing on her, to see the accusation in their eyes, hear the bitterness in their voices – it made it all too real what kind of a monster her father truly had been towards the end.

Though the sun had not shown its presence in the days she had been at Winterfell, she could assess it was sometime passed midday, perhaps even dinnertime with the vague scent of cooked meat assaulting her senses. Her stomach churned; it appeared upon further exposure to them the northern dishes didn’t quite sit well with her, and she struggled with her appetite. Not keen on another session of forcing down mouthfuls at her Hand’s or Handmaiden’s instruction, nor meeting the watchful eyes of the northern lords so soon after hearing their distinct disapproval of her – Daenerys looked for any opportunity to avoid the meal. She considered retiring to her chambers early, but wasn’t particularly keen on spending her afternoon cooped up in the dark room, not when the skies however grey were still alight.

It was then that she remembered the Godswood Jon had mentioned in passing – the small walled in forest that the northerners attended for prayer and ceremonial purposes, due to their worship of the Old Gods, rather than the Seven which dominated the rest of Westeros. Not being of the Old Faith herself, Daenerys wondered if she would be imposing on something sacred by seeking its solitude.

 

\---

 

She was surprised how quickly the sounds of the busy castle fell away, replaced by the subtle crushing of snow under her boots as she moved along the winding path. The forest mainly grey and white with only hints of green needles buried under blankets of snow, Daenerys could only imagine how it must have looked in the summer. She pictured specks of green moss covering the dirt, the trees all around her heavy with green leaves, and as she spied an icy patch in front of her, she imagined a dark pond leading up to the majestic white and red tree standing in the centre of it all. It amazed her how the Weirwood leaves remained so blood red even in the icy winter.

As she slowly approached the ancient tree, she spied a figure sitting to the side of it. Her first instinct was to move away and leave them to their prayers, but then she saw the familiar white coat of the creature next to him. Ghost seemed to notice her at that time as well, and left his master’s side for hers. It didn’t cease to amaze her how well the massive creature had taken to her – did he sense Jon’s affection for her, was that why? Had that been what Drogon had sensed when he had accepted Jon as well? The direwolf nuzzled into her side, allowing her to run her hand through his thick fur, the hairs coarse yet soft at the same time.

Daenerys stood for a moment in complete silence and observed her lover as he did her. Then Jon held open his heavy fur cloak, a wordless invitation for her to sit with him and share the warmth. It seemed like every passing day was growing just a little bit colder, and although she wasn’t shivering yet, the bite of the cold was slowly creeping into her, and she considered the offer. Part of her knew it was foolish to risk watchful eyes seeing them, another part thought of the oncoming war, the army marching on them, and wondered if keeping a distance would matter in the end. Perhaps their weeks of distance would amount to nothing, and they would simply have denied themselves of one another for nothing.

She surprised him by settling herself by his side, however he promptly responded by draping his cloak and arm across her shoulders. Ghost followed and settled into her other side, wolf and master clearly together on keeping her warm.

“He likes you,” Jon finally said, using his free hand to run across the direwolf head resting in her lap.

“The feeling is mutual,” she assured him.

Her head lolled against his shoulder as his hand reached hers, their fingers entangling. And she thought back to the first time he had reached for her hand, when she had sat vigil over his frozen form. It had startled her how such an innocent gesture of comfort could be felt so intense, so filled with underlying desire. The desire was still there, but it was mostly just tenderness, the way his thumb gently caressed hers.

“It’s really serene out here,” she remarked.

“Hm,” Jon agreed. “Father would always come out here to think, whenever anything troubled him, when honour demanded he do something he didn’t want to.”

“And you?” she wondered, her mind conjuring an image of a younger Jon. She imagined his hair out of those restraints, perhaps shorter, probably wilder – his face boyishly smooth, though with the same brooding tendency.

“Was a good place to escape to,” he admitted, though he did not embellish, so it was left up to her to fill in the blanks.

She knew he got along with most of his siblings, and though he had mentioned not being close with Sansa growing up, they seemed to have grown closer since. And the way he spoke of his father signalled nothing but the deepest respect; it left only one person he might want to escape, the only family member she knew of whom Jon had yet to talk about.

“Lady Stark?” she asked, and she felt Jon tense under her, signalling that she had probably deduced correctly. She lifted her head from his shoulder and looked at him, and she believed she could spy the hurt and confused boy in his eyes.

Jon nodded gravely, “I was a blemish upon her family; living proof that honourable Eddard Stark had broken his vow to her.”

“And she took it out on you,” Daenerys realized.

“She never let me forget what I was,” he shrugged. “So I promised myself that I would never repeat his mistake and father my own bastard.”

“Is that why you joined the Night’s Watch?”

He took a moment to consider it.

“It certainly made the pledge easier to make, but I think I was headed there either way. What else can a bastard boy with nothing to inherit do? My uncle Benjen was already First Ranger, so I hoped to become one too so I could work with him.” Jon’s expression fell. “He went missing beyond the wall shortly after I joined. I didn’t see him again until that last time I went beyond the wall, where he sacrificed himself so I could escape.”

Daenerys only realized then that Jon had never before mentioned how he had managed to return to her from falling into that frozen lake. Her mind had been so focused on his wellbeing upon his return that she hadn’t thought to ask how he had managed the impossible – and he hadn’t offered.

 

\---

 

“Oh,” a male voice sounded, startling them.

The two of them quickly scrambled to their feet as they saw Jon’s friend approach, pushing the wheeled contraption Bran was seated in. Sam’s eyes were wide with realization as he looked between the two of them, whereas Jon’s younger brother had more of a disinterested look about him, as if what was going on between them was old news to him, or simply didn’t matter to him at all.

“We hoped we’d find you here,” Sam half-stuttered, his eyes darting between his friend and Daenerys told her clearly he had meant the singular meaning of the word.

Jon tensed up next to her, “Anything happen?”

Sam vigorously shook his head, “Oh, no, nothing like that,” he assured his friend. “We were hoping to speak to you about something.”

When he didn’t continue, Jon nodded to his friend, “Go ahead.”

The man hesitated, looking towards Daenerys, “Perhaps it’s best we spoke alone.”

This made her tense up as well. She couldn’t decide if she was more offended or worried about that statement. The man certainly seemed good-natured, his eyes and demeanour spoke of friendliness, and Jon appeared to have great trust in him. Still, part of her wanted to refuse his request. If it concerned her she would rather hear it firsthand, and if it didn’t there ought to be little reason to dismiss her.

Jon seemed to agree as he told his friend; “Anything you say to me, you can say to Daenerys.”

The other man slowly nodded, “It’s about your mother,” he began.

This made Jon frown in confusion, Daenerys as well. From what he had told her, Ned Stark had always refused to tell Jon anything about his mother, so how his friend or brother could know anything about her was beyond her.

“Father took that secret to his grave,” Jon said, a trace of bitterness in his voice.

“He did it to protect you,” Bran spoke, his voice as even and emotionless as ever; “No one was to know, not even Mother.”

“Then how do you know?”

“I’m the Three-Eyed Raven, now. I can see everything,” Bran said calmly, “Father didn’t lie when he said you have his blood, but you were never his son. You’re the son of Lyanna Stark and Rhaegar Targaryen. You’ve never been a bastard; your true name is Aegon Targaryen.”

Daenerys felt the air leaving her body; her eyes looked to Jon who stood motionless and pale next to her. Her vision blurred momentarily and she suddenly felt light-headed, reaching out to the trunk of the Weirwood to support herself. Normally this would illicit some kind of response or worry from Jon, but now it was like he didn’t even see her. He stared in disbelief at his brother and Sam. Moments passed, and his face began to harden, anger setting in.

“No,” was the only word that left his lips before he stomped off. And Daenerys stared after him in disbelief; he hadn’t even spared her a single glance.

 

\---

 

She repeatedly cursed him as she paced back and forth in her chamber. After the initial shock had worn off, anger seemed to take a hold of her as well. It was not a foreign emotion to her, but usually the subjects of her anger were deserving ones, and not victims of consequences beyond their own control. Yet she could not help feeling a fury towards the northern King. Damn him for being who he was, for answering her summon, for blatantly defying her in her own throne room, for crawling under her skin and have her fall in love with him. More importantly damn him for taking off like he had.

Her head began to ache, forcing her to stop. And she sat down on her bed, resting her head in her hands. Daenerys wanted to focus her thoughts on Jon, on how his entire life had been rendered a lie, but she couldn’t help but think of how her own had become just as much of a lie as his. Everything she thought she was, thought she was due; it had never been hers to begin with.

A knock sounded from her door. She considered ignoring it for a moment, not really in the mood for any company. The knock repeated, more firmly this time. Reluctantly, she stood up and crossed the room. She lingered by the door for a moment, bracing herself in case she came eye to eye with the object of her fury. Finally she pushed the door open, bracing herself for whatever he had to say.

Only it wasn’t him. It was Tyrion.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “They take to you much better than they do me,” Tyrion observed.
> 
> “Must be the Targaryen in me,” Jon said, mostly to himself. There was no doubt the dwarf knew the truth – why else would he come seek him out?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to Susan for reading this over for me. As well as the rest of you for your patience. I'm very glad to have managed to get this done before my beta went off on holiday.
> 
> I cannot promise when the next chapter will be posted. I hope to write it soon, though I am reluctant to post without running it by my beta first. I also have a trip to Essen, Germany at the end of the month. I do promise to do my best to write more soon :)

Lies, all lies. A chill had come upon him, as he wandered the courtyard with no other intention than to put distance between himself and what he had just been told. With every step, he felt the anger building within him. Everywhere he looked, everywhere he turned Jon was assaulted by the lies that had made up his childhood. He was taught the word _bastard_ years before he understood it, learned to identify by it, even answer to it. How he had despised himself when he had finally learned what it meant.

All those years of seeing the dull pain in his _father_ ’s eyes, believing himself to be the cause of it – a stain besmirching the honour of the always so revered Eddard Stark. Years of being reminded by everyone how _lucky_ he was to be taken in by the Lord – enduring the cold and hateful eyes of Lady Catelyn following him while he played with his trueborn _siblings_. Only one thing had given him pride, as people addressed him as _bastard_ or the mocking moniker _Lord Snow_ ; he had still been the son of Eddard Stark. Now Jon didn’t even have that.

Not even paying attention to where his feet were taking him, Jon soon found himself in the crypts staring at the statue of the man – suddenly as much of a stranger to him as the statue failed to capture his likeness. Last time they had spoken, Ned had promised to tell him about his mother – had he truly meant it, or was it another evasion, another lie? It pained him that he could no longer be sure.

As he stood in silence watching the stone carved face in front of him, letting his rage ebb out of him bit by bit, Jon realized it wasn’t the initial lie that bothered him. When Rhaegar and the Mad King both fell, their children had become targets. Had Jon’s true parentage been revealed, he knew he would have been murdered along with Rhaegar’s other children. He knew the lie had kept him safe, understood its necessity. He even understood why Ned never told him growing up; no child should bear the weight of such a secret.

But hadn’t he deserved to know the truth before swearing his life away at the Wall? If his _father_ had deemed him old enough to pledge himself to the Night’s Watch, surely he’d been old enough to handle the truth of his birth. Even as bitterness seeped in, tainting the image Jon had of the man – still he couldn’t find himself calling him anything except Father. It was as he had told Theon back on Dragonstone; Ned Stark was part of them both, more of a father to both of them than their own fathers ever were.

Jon looked across the crypt, at the statue depicting Lyanna. If Ned’s statue was anything to judge by, there was no knowing what his mother truly had looked like. Though Jon could recall someone mention in passing how Arya took after her aunt, which made sense. Arya was the one among his siblings – he simply refused to think of them as cousins – who resembled Jon the most. He could imagine a woman similar to his baby sister – though perhaps slightly older. Had she been as fierce, as wild as his sister? If so, how had Rhaegar managed to steal her away?

He didn’t want to think about the stories, didn’t want to think about what circumstances had led to his birth. His true name hadn’t escaped him; Targaryen. Had the marriage been forced as well? Like Sansa had been forced to marry Ramsey? He wished he could believe and take comfort in the other stories of Rhaegar, like the one Daenerys had told him of her brother.

Daenerys… a knot formed in his gut upon realizing. His mind so preoccupied with everything else he had failed to realize the final thing this reveal would rob him of. She was his aunt by blood, his only living paternal relation – yet he could not make himself see her as anything other than the woman who had come to claim his heart. Though how could they go on after what had been revealed? It might be the Targaryen way, but the realm would never go for it – not after years of madness. There was a saying among the people; whenever a Targaryen was born the Gods flipped a coin.

This coin flip had favoured Daenerys, the same way it corrupted her brother Viserys – sure she still had the well-known fiery temper of a Targaryen, but underneath it all was genuine compassion – not just for the well to do, but the smallfolk and the downtrodden as well. Jon had come to believe as her other followers did that she was the best hope for the Seven Kingdoms. When he first knocked on her cabin door, Jon had known he would be a complication to her rule – a lowly bastard named King; however the trueborn son of her brother Rhaegar was a downright reliability.

 

\---

 

It was madness to approach them alone. Yet here he was, putting one foot in front of the other, slowly making his way towards the Wolfswood, where the two of them were currently resting. The bigger one, Drogon followed him with his gaze, though seemingly only half-interested. When Jon had ungloved his hand and held it up to the dragon on the cliffs of Dragonstone, he had merely acted on instinct – at the time he had believed it to be the wolf in him – believing that if he showed no fear or malice the dragon wouldn’t perceive him as a threat. Now he wondered if it had merely been the smell of Targaryen blood in him that had subdued the creature.

Jon didn’t really know why he had decided to seek them out, perhaps it was the nearly guaranteed solitude – hardly anyone else would dare to approach the dragons. He had stood in the crypts for a long time, but eventually steps had been heard in the distance – and he had moved before anyone could find him. When he reached the courtyard, while ever busy, the sky was a dark grey hinting of nightfall. His stomach growled in hunger, having skipped dinner already – still he ventured out the gates. He would take supper in his room later, anything to buy him a few more moments of solitude, putting off what needed to happen.

Now much closer, the other dragon – named for the father Jon didn’t want to acknowledge – took notice of him. At first Rhaegal merely lifted his head and observed him, though as Jon moved a few paces closer, he rose to his feet with a low yet noticeable growl. Jon took one more measured step before stopping, both heeding the dragon’s warning while signalling he wouldn’t cower in fear either. Perhaps he was being reckless, but part of him needed this final confirmation that what his brother said was the truth. Much like Drogon had on the cliffs of Dragonstone, Rhaegal approached with a threatening snarl. Once again Jon ungloved his hand as he held the creature’s gaze, standing firmly in his place.

Close enough to touch; Jon’s hand hovered in front of the dragon’s nostril, widening as Rhaegal took in his scent. The creature allowed his hand to touch its scales, though the snarl merely lowered in intensity. It took Jon a moment to realize why as he spotted the reflection of flames in Rhaegal’s eyes – and he turned around to see Tyrion approach torch in hand, though at a deliberately slower pace than he himself had. The dwarf stopped several paces away, carefully eyeing Rhaegal while the dragon stared back. As Jon carefully stroked his scaly hide, the growl died out and the dragon moved his gaze from Tyrion and back to Jon; its eyes softening significantly.

“They take to you much better than they do me,” Tyrion observed.

“Must be the Targaryen in me,” Jon said, mostly to himself. There was no doubt the dwarf knew the truth – why else would he come seek him out?

Tyrion did not disappoint, there was no surprise neither in his voice nor eyes as Jon turned to look at him. “It did always puzzle me that the honourable Ned Stark would stray from his vows to father a bastard – it never seemed like his way. Not that I can claim to have known him personally – but he was renowned for his unwavering honour.”

“Aye, he had the whole realm fooled,” Jon didn’t bother to mask his bitterness.

Tyrion narrowed his eyes, “You’re not ungrateful, are you? If Robert or Gods forbid, my father had any inkling you were Rhaegar’s son – bastard or trueborn – you wouldn’t have lived to see your first name day. Your uncle saved your life, claiming you as his own.”

“I know that!” Jon fired up, clenching his hand as it dropped to his side. He turned and moved a few steps towards the other man. “All my life I’ve been told how lucky I’ve been, to be raised by my Lord Father despite being a bastard. To be trained by a master at arms unlike most of my sworn brothers. Now I find out I’ve been shunned and despised for nothing – forgive me, but it’s a little hard to feel grateful for having my whole life turned a lie.”

There was sympathy and something else he couldn’t identify in Tyrion’s eyes. “Believe it or not,” the dwarf said. “I can relate entirely to how you feel – except of course, my own circumstances never changed, my own father hated me until his dying breath and I suspect my sister will as well – but still, I can relate.”

Jon felt the fight sap out of him, and almost resented the dwarf for it. It was easier to be angry, to rage about the unfairness that had made up his life – something up until a moment ago Jon felt he had earned.

“He could have told me,” he sighed, his shoulders slumping in defeat.

“In all fairness, he probably intended to at some point.”

“When?” Jon bit out. “After I pledged my life away to the Night’s Watch? Didn’t I at least deserve to know the full truth before taking that vow?”

“And what would you have done with the information, had he done so?” Tyrion challenged. “Would you have rallied for support and ridden south? Reclaimed the throne in your father’s name?”

“I have no desire to take the throne. I didn’t even want to be King in the north.”

“Then might I ask; what would have changed?”

Jon sighed in frustration. “At least I’d known what I was giving up.”

“So that’s the crux of it,” Tyrion contemplated. “You’re angry because he denied you your birthright – one I might add you don’t even want.”

“I’m angry because all of a sudden everything has turned to shit. All I ever wanted was to be Jon Stark, trueborn son of Ned Stark – now I’m not even his son. He’s the only father I’ve ever known, ever wanted to have. Now instead I have the man who kidnapped and raped my mother.”

“He didn’t, actually.” Tyrion must have seen the confusion in his eyes, so he clarified, “It’s an interesting ability your brother seems to have acquired. It appears the stories we heard were wrong. Rhaegar neither kidnapped nor raped Lyanna – they met at a tourney at Harrenhal and fell in love. It was complicated, she was betrothed to Robert and Rhaegar was already married – and though it wasn’t the wisest thing to do, they decided to run away together. He had his first marriage annulled and they married in secret.”

“Bran saw all of this?” Jon asked in disbelief.

“Well, I had heard stories of the tourney in question, and drew my own conclusions,” Tyrion shrugged. “Your brother was helpful to fill in the missing pieces.”

“So he didn’t rape her.” The relief Jon felt was tainted at best. “He still sat his wife aside for another woman, a rather shit thing to do. And what about his other children – wouldn’t an annulment make them bastards?”

“I’m not here to claim Rhaegar was honourable in his actions – just that he wasn’t what we all thought he was. The best I can say is that he clearly loved your mother – and that men in love can make terrible decisions sometimes.”

There was a moment of silence, before Jon asked, “Like making nightly visits to the Queen’s cabin?”

“Not sure I would classify that as terrible,” Tyrion shrugged. “Don’t get me wrong, it definitely wasn’t the wisest decision, however you both are currently young and unmarried – royal obligations aside you are free to love.”

“I’m her nephew,” Jon sighed.

Tyrion chuckled lightly. “I figured we would get here at some point. Does that bother you?”

“Not the way it should,” Jon answered honestly. “But what I think isn’t the problem.”

“It’s actually not entirely frowned upon,” Tyrion pointed out.

Jon huffed, “For Targaryens, you mean.”

“Well yes, though I wasn’t strictly thinking about Targaryens in this case. The great thing about reading all the time is all the knowledge you accumulate. A while back I read about the lineages of the great houses. Though it’s far from common practice and mostly condemned by the Seven, there were a few instances outside of House Targaryen where uncles married their nieces – two such instances happened within House Stark.”

“You are proposing marriage?” Jon asked in disbelief.

The dwarf shrugged. “More like not eliminating the possibility. I won’t pretend it would be an easy union to sell, an avunculate marriage is not ideal, though much preferred to the typical Targaryen unions of the past. Politically it makes sense to tie the North to the crown through marriage. It would also solve the matter of who has the stronger claim to the throne if you were to rule together.”

“How pragmatic of you,” Jon threw the dwarfs own word back at him, recalling the conversation they had back on the ship.

“Then there is also the small matter of you loving one another,” Tyrion continued. “I admit I have a more cynical view of love than I used to, but I do believe you two have the genuine article. It also helps that I think you both have good leadership qualities, though I stand by my thinking you are terrible influences on one another on the field of battle – both equally self-sacrificing. In terms of ruling, however, I think you have a way of tempering one another.”

The dwarf turned to walk away, though only a few paces away, he turned his head back.

“If I can give you just one piece of advice, the same I gave Daenerys,” he added. “Whatever you do, don’t make any hasty decisions. Take some time, let everything sink in, and deal with all of this when you are truly ready.”

With that he turned around and headed back to the castle, leaving Jon in the dark to ponder.

**Author's Note:**

> I aim to write more, but be wary of my promises, I don't have the best track record.
> 
> Also, I appreciate honest feedback, don't be afraid to disagree.


End file.
